


There Was Only One Bed

by Ynnealay



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Caring Aziraphale (Good Omens), Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Intimacy, Literal Sleeping Together, M/M, No Sex, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Sleeping Together, Soft Aziraphale (Good Omens), Soft Crowley (Good Omens), and there was only one bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-08
Updated: 2019-09-08
Packaged: 2020-10-12 21:30:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 739
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20571206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ynnealay/pseuds/Ynnealay
Summary: "He sleeps with his limbs askew but the blanket centered perfectly on him, sleeps with a gentle rise and fall of his chest that looks peaceful and beautiful. Aziraphale finds himself, for the first time, enticed to try this sleeping thing."They share a bed, because Aziraphale wants to try sleeping. Instead, he spends the whole time admiring Crowley.





	There Was Only One Bed

Angels do not need to sleep. Strictly speaking, neither do demons. This doesn’t stop Crowley from indulging in the practice the same way Aziraphale has a penchant for food. And this is how Aziraphale finds himself distracted, staring at Crowley asleep in his bed, while a thunderstorm prowls outside the window, battering the glass with rain. 

_You don’t want to go out in weather like that, _Crowley had said, _stay the night, angel—get some work done at my desk and be off by morning. I don’t mind._

Crowley’s desk is in his room, and though Aziraphale had started off with two different editions of the same book, flipping through—marking changes and differences—long after Crowley wished him _goodnight_, he now finds himself transfixed by Crowley’s sleeping form upon the bed. 

He sleeps with his limbs askew but the blanket centered perfectly on him, sleeps with a gentle rise and fall of his chest that looks peaceful and beautiful. Aziraphale finds himself, for the first time, enticed to try this _sleeping _thing. 

No use in waking Crowley—no, he seems to be quite involved. So Aziraphale slides the chair back, and without a sound he drifts over to the bed. The sheets are deep black, like squid ink, like the sky before it had any stars, like the pupils of Crowley’s eyes. Aziraphale peels back the corner ever so gently, and tucks himself in. 

The mattress squeaks, and Crowley stirs a little in his sleep—a rumbling murmur like he’s captured the storm outside in his throat—then he stills again, and his breathing goes back even. 

Aziraphale finds himself matching that rhythm in his own chest—breathing in and out, trying to get the hang of it. _Falling asleep _doesn’t seem to be enjoyable at all. But Crowley makes sleeping look positively divine. Aziraphale dares to inch a little more into the bed, closer to where Crowley is sleeping, and just as he does, Crowley rolls over, through the expanse of ink-black sheets, and one of his arms hits Aziraphale’s torso. Aziraphale makes a quiet, _ooph_, and Crowley wakes. 

His eyes blink open, unguarded and snake-like, sunglasses-less, and Aziraphale thinks for a moment, _radiant_. 

“‘ziraphale?” His voice says _half-asleep_. “What’re you doing here?”

“I—uh... well, I thought I might try, er, sleeping. It was getting late.” Aziraphale purses his lips together, feeling silly and embarrassed. 

Crowley looks at him, an unfathomable look, a look so soft Aziraphale is surprised it appears on his face. Then his eyes slip closed again and he mumbles,

“Hm, well that’s alright. Go on then, angel.” 

And with that, the demon is back asleep. His body is lax and supple, his breathing a comforting whistle that sounds like steam off a cocoa-mug looks. 

Aziraphale finds he cannot sleep that night (or any other, for that matter—Aziraphale finds that sleeping isn’t quite for him), but he gets lulled into something warm and soothing lying next to Crowley, as sleep carries the demon through the night. Aziraphale wonders if Crowley also dreams, if that’s something he ought to try. 

At some point in the night, Crowley shifts towards him. It’s a small thing, but a movement that tucks Crowley’s head into Aziraphale’s chest. And then there’s warmth there, warmth and beauty. It’s ridiculous, this is Crowley, not a kitten tucking itself into Aziraphale’s arms, but somehow it feels very, very similar.

When the sun rises through the parting grey clouds the next morning, it casts a clear light over Crowley’s face, and Aziraphale cannot tear his eyes away. When Crowley shifts to lie on his front, Aziraphale sees the smooth lines of his back and Crowley looks to him like a statue of pristine marble—he wonders idly if Crowley ever commissioned a statue of himself back when the Greeks were wild about that sort of thing; Aziraphale wouldn’t put it past him.

When Crowley wakes, he asks Aziraphale if sleeping was enjoyable, and Aziraphale nods and says _oh yes, very novel, very interesting, very enjoyable_. He thinks Crowley can tell he’s lying, but he doesn’t comment. 

It is this memory Aziraphale thinks of when, years later, they find themselves in a hotel, on a trip they take together to Paris. Crowley says,

“There’s only one bed—suppose we miracle another one if you wanted to sleep tonight.” 

And Aziraphale says,

“No, no. That’s alright. If it’s alright with you, one’s enough.”

**Author's Note:**

> To my Misery.


End file.
